


Lonely Eyes

by wordstowords03



Category: The Patriot (2000)
Genre: American Revolution, Drama, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-07-21 02:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16150784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstowords03/pseuds/wordstowords03
Summary: Annabel Rothschild is no stranger to war. She'd seen bloodshed and turmoil in her own life. Now, with South Carolina on the brink of joining the Revolutionary War, Annabel finds herself a victim to her past -- and to the icy eyes of the irresistible Colonel William Tavington. In his eyes she sees herself: lonely, ravenous, insatiable. Unbeknownst to the colonies, a new war has started: the war between love, lust and loyalties.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece I wrote some time ago and decided to resume. The setting is the same, but the scene is different. A different structure, different end game. Looking forward to finishing this piece and releasing it once again.

“Annabel—Annabel! Goddamnit, where is that damn child?” Uncle Jethro slammed a filthy hand against the butcher block.

The act earned him an eyeroll from his wife who toiled over the stove.

 “Oh, leave her be, Jethro,” she chastised, her nostrils in taking the scrumptious fragrance of the stew she was brewing – pumpkin and parsley. “And, while we’re at it, Annabel is no child. She is grown, regal woman of eighteen. Let her be.”

Uncle Jethro’s murky brown eyes bulged in their sockets.

“Let her be? Let _her—Annabel—_ be?” He massaged a hand along his triangular jaw, kneading it in exasperation. “Where is she?”

“On her way back home, I’m certain. Jonah took her riding this morn.”

“Riding? You let her _leave?_ ”

“Jethro!” She slammed a stirring spoon against the counter. Broth flittered through the air, landed on the stove. “You cannot insist upon keeping her caged up in here like some wild animal!”

“She could be lost by now, causing some ruckus or—or burning down a church, school, residence. Jonah—you allowed Jonah to escort her? For Christ’s sake.” He grumbled, shook his head. “The child is baggage.”

“I do not understand how you can speak of your brother’s daughter so,” She cooed. She turned to face her husband and coiled her plump arms around his midsection. She breathed him in, relished his musky, piney scent; the aroma of his woodshop; an aroma she cherished. “She is keen, a bit wild, yes, but she is lovely. I beseech you, be compassionate. She atones much and fears little, our Annabel is of character.”

Uncle Jethro groaned. Of course—she was always so fond of Annabel. She was the daughter she craved after bearing three strappings sons. While they were worthy candidates for labor, they fell short on sentiment. Before Annabel, his wife drowned in sorrow. He remembered the day she arrived and the light that filled his wife’s eyes. Whatever Annabel was, she was cherished.

His eyes softened, his voice lowered.

“I have tried, Abigail, but I cannot condone her carelessness. She has duties – duties she neglects. She should be thinking about marriage, husbands –”

“You fret about the wrong things.” Abigail kissed his chin before she withdrew, her sights settling back on the stove. “Now, you get cleaned up. Lunch is soon upon Oh – and there’s some mail for you that came while you were in the shop. Straight from Charlestowne, it is.”

 

 “Charlestowne?”

Jethro’s bushy brows bowed over his snout. He wiped his hands with a towel and launched into the haphazard pile of correspondence.

***

Annabel perched on the edge of a dangling oak tree limb and peered down at her cousin. She watched as he launched into the creek, water spraying and cattails swaying in his wake.

 “Annabel!” Jonah called, head peeping up from the water. “Get in here!”

“Well, I most certainly would,” Annabel drawled in her delectable Southern accent, and wrought her hands through her long, auburn braid. “But I would soil my dress! Can you bear the thought, Jonah?”

Her full lips stretched over her teeth to showcase a wicked smile. It caused her eyes to scrunch misbehaviors – an endearing trait that was something like a habit.

“Damn your fineries! Get in _here_!”

Oh, Annabel just loved to tease Jonah. After all, he was by far her favorite cousin: daring, confident, facetious. They shared much: an Equestrian kinship, a home, and a mutual annoyance toward Jethro Rothschild—the ridiculous man he was.

Uncle Jethro was a trying man; expectant upon Annabel.

_Annabel, where’s my washing?_

_Annabel, assist your aunt!_

_Annabel, why are you standing about?_

_Hand me that._

_Check yourself, girl—remember your place. Annabel, have you not a chore to attend?_

The nagging raged on and on. Sure, Annabel was unique—unique in the capacity that she held no affinity for the normal talents that a woman was supposed to bear. She awful with a needle; dreadfully disinterested in literature; a terror in the kitchen. Not to mention, she refused courtship. Men disinterested her with their chivalries and trifles. Annabel was too wild for them, free.

She was a flame who sought to devour, demolish, diminish.

Annabel swung her toes, declared: “ _O_ _thy day, so lively and just, O thy might so highly and trust, to thee reverence I send thee a plunder, to rapture the morn and capture the moors. O thy day, I beseech thee be. Forsyth the day and taunt the seed, O how unbecoming of me; for if I were to fall from this tree, what would be made of O woeful me?”_

Jonah grinned at his cousin’s quaint rhymes, slapped the water with his hand.

“You rhymes won’t save you this time!” Annabel jumped at the voice  at her ear and whipped her head around. She caught a glimpse of unruly blonde hair and wide, brown eyes before the branch beneath her quivered, depositing her into the murky waters below.

“Scoundrel!” She spat, breeching the creek’s surface. “You are _absolutely_ detestable, Gabriel Martin!”

Gabriel laughed from the oak tree, clutched at his stomach in triumpth.

 “Oh lighten up, Bel.” Jonah wadded over to his frazzled cousin, lightly flicked her on the shoulder.

“Fine. I will lighten. And then _you_ can explain to your father why I’ll have to lay waste to a perfectly new gown.” She could imagine that trademark twitch in his left eye, the brooding silence before the lecture.

“Blame the weather!” Gabriel suggested from the shore, having hopped down from the tree. 

Annabel raised her eyes to the afternoon’s sweltering sun, gestured to the rays that beamed down on the creek.

“Brilliant, Gabriel. As you can see, there’s an abundance of rain this noon.”

“Indeed there is!” Gabriel launched himself into the creek, spraying the cousins. Once he surfaced, Annabel and Jonah sprayed him in kind. The result? A heated battle of wits, water and South Carolina heat.

An hour later, they laid on the creek bank, limbs askew.

 “I suppose I should be heading home,” Gabriel said. “Unlike others, I tend to my chores. Eventually.”

“Here, here!” Jonah agreed.

“Good riddance.” Annabel chimed, rising to her feet and taking inventory of her creek-ravaged dress. The pastel yellow coloring was weighed down by dampness, the bodice clinging to her bosom snugly. The bottom of the skirt was riddled with an assortment of creek life, including tree needles and mud.

She cast Gabriel a scornful stare.

“A little washing should do the trick,” he said and expertly flung himself over his horse’s saddle. With a final cry, he made for the Martin estate. Annabel shook her head in his wake.

Gabriel was a comfort to Annabel. They’d grown up similar in age, and spent a measurable amount of time goading one another. Though Gabriel possessed a different ill – one of honor and righteousness – they did share one similarity: a hunger for mischief.

Head to toe, Annabel bore signs of trouble. Even caked in creek grime Annabel was a striking force, a beautiful storm. When she struck, farms were capsized and men fled. She had sharp, prominent cheek bones and a strong English forehead. Her lips were pink, full – almost swollen in their execution. And her eyes, wild as they were, bore the color of amethyst. Strangers would gawk at her stare as she passed, enchanted by her charms.

 _Jezebel,_ her last suitor called her.

She supposed it was a fitting name. She held no true tenderness or love, and rejected her suitors often. Once, she sent one toppling into a pig pen with no gentler greeting than, “Opps.” She kept her emotion private, silent. In her experience, emotions only led to pain and suffering – suffering that Annabel tucked in an old drawer. A drawer that rattled with the memory of lashings and abuse.

Jonah met Annabel with the reins of their horses. They boarded swiftly and paved their ways home. By the time they reached the two-story farmhouse, the sun had fallen behind the trees. Jonah nuzzled his horse against Annabel’s and grinned.

 “You go on ahead—see if you can sneak in the back.” Annabel saluted her cousin and fell oh-so-gracefully from her horse. She bid the mare a departing kiss before she slid into the house.

Sneaking in was a rehearsed process: she creeped along the backside of the house and pressed herself tightly to the structure. Then, she eased open the blue porch door, guided the hinges upward to prevent squealing. Once she was certain her stealth was intact, she darted up the staircase two steps at a time and launched into her room.

Once inside, she wretched off her soiled thread and shoved them beneath the mattress. Exasperated, she crumpled against her bureau and bounced her head back against the wood.

 _Now, how should I explain the mess?_ He eyes followed ta trail of mud and grime.

“Annabel, are you up there?” Jethro shouted.

“Annabel—sweetheart—can you come down a moment?” Aunt Abigail’s sweet, sweet voice beckoned from the bottom of the staircase.

“Yes—I—uh—one second!”

Annabel’s grimaced at the sopping corset that clung to her bodice like smelted steel. She knew it would take minutes to pry loose. Hours, maybe.

She swathed herself in a robe and rushed down the stairs to the kitchen. Choosing to ignore her uncle’s suspicious leer, she beamed at her aunt and settled at the table. With her sat Jonah, and her twin cousins, Jiminy and Peter.

The twins turned their steely grey eyes her direction. They nudged each other, pointed to her robe.

“Wonder what she did this time?,” Jiminy whispered.

“Yeah, papa’s going to lose his –”

Annabel raised her legs beneath the table and pushed against the seats of their chairs. The boys toppled into the kitchen floor with a declarative crash.

Jonah snorted, laughed after his wriggling brothers.

 “Annabel, what say you?” Jethro hissed.

She simply shrugged.

“Just a little clumsiness, is all.”

Jethro’s face adapted a purplish hue. Aunt Abigail chuckled in earnest, patted his arm. .

“So, why are we gathered here, mother?” Jonah asked.

“You father—“ Abigail began, only to be drowned out by her husband.

 “I’ve been summoned for assembly tomorrow in Charlestowne. Your mother insisted I—“

“Is this to decide on the war, papa?” Jiminy chirped, finally upright and peering over the back of his chair at his father. “Is South Carolina to join, is it Papa?”

“War!” James punched his fist through the air. “Finally!”

“James,” Abigail chastised. Annabel saw the fear in her eyes – the post-war vision. Any war would inevitably steal her husband and eldest son. She clutched at Jonah’s chair, fretted with an errant hair on his head.

Jonah sat rapt on the edge of his seat. His hands drummed against the table top – eager, excited. He’d been awaiting this moment since the war started. He longed for South Carolina to join her sister, Delaware. Annabel’s heart sank as she watched him.

 _You can’t leave,_ she silently plead. _You can’t leave us._

“Enough, enough, ENOUGH!” Jethro yelled. The kitchen fell silent once more, and he gestured himself on. “Yes—it’s about the war and I’ll be damned if we don’t join it! We leave tonight and your mother insisted we all go—something about the market or...” He waved his hand carelessly. “I ask that you all pack and prepare. Now.”

With that, the kitchen erupted into amicable chaos. The boys darted to their rooms, toy guns clutched beneath their elbows. Jethro made after them, kissed his mother’s forehead. Annabel herself made to rose, but found herself gazing up at her towering uncle.

“No funny business or embarrassing this family, am I clear? If someone addresses you, you will speak. If someone trips, you will assist them. If anything, and I do mean anything, by God, Annabel— _anything_ —goes aery on our visit I—I—I—“

“Annabel, dear.” Abigail said over her flailing husband. “Do you require my hand in packing? You’ll need a lovely dress and—oh, how about the new shawl I made you! Don’t you think that would suit her just wonderfully, Jethro?”

She fluttered a hand to her niece’s lower back—just a gentle, butterfly caress—and Annabel flinched. Abigail sought to hold her, as they always did, until she wrought her hand in her skirts. She shook her head in self-loathing. “Oh Bel, dear, I am fretfully sorry – “

“No, no, please,” Annabel lulled herself into an eerie calm. Just one flutter, one caress sent her into a sea of memories, the horrors grasping her ankles and hauling her through the icy waters, pinning her down, drowning, drowning…. Drowning… Her arms, her legs—they were safe zones, unmarred territory. Her back, her thighs – they bore the memory of past abuses. Abuses not fit a slave.

Like clockwork, Jethro and Abigail watched as their nieces transforms from a feral cat, backed into the corner of actions passed. Her purple eyes glistened with tears. Tears of horrors, and memories, and pain. She shouldered her emotion and offered her relatives a guilty smile.

 “I’m sorry, I’ll pack quickly, I promise. I – I need a moment alone.”

Jethro—so cold and expectant toward the lass—stared after his ward, sorrow weeping through his eyes. Abigail cursed herself, raised a hand to touch her husband’s chest. He swathed her in his arms, cradled her within his arms.

“She’s better than she was,” he whispered. “She’s better than she was.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Annabel delighted in the sights of Charlestowne. The docks bewitched her, set with bulky vessels that lulled in tune to the lively waters. As their coach shuffled through towne, Annabel bent her head out the window like a dog, laughed at the breeze in her hair.  

Jonah sought her hand and squeezed it in warning, nodding towards the approaching house.

She sighed and resignation and settled into the carriage. She puckered her lips petulantly, glared at the house. The ride passed so quickly! Now, she was expected to smile politely, behave appropriately. How cruel.

Annabel leaned towards Jonah mischievously, whispered in his ear: “ _Thy strength, they need—oh what is there to feel? Perhaps I’d be better off picking cotton in the fields. For labor will pay where society yields.”_

 “You’re off to a lovely start. Do keep it up.” He chuckled and eradicated himself from the stopped coach. He extended a hand to his mother as she bowed out of the vehicle. No sooner than she’d hit that ground was she chatting with her friends, eyes wide with joy. Jiminy, James and Jethro followed suit. Soon, Annabel was left eyeing her cousin’s extended hand.

With an indiginant, if not amused, huff, she leaped from the coach and onto the stony ground below. She wavered once, only to be secured upright by a large, brawny hand.

 “I hoped I’d be seeing you, Annabel.”

“James Wilkins.” She flashed him a sinister smirk, challenged his Sunday-morning-blue eyes. “Why am I not surprised? Come to torture the assembly tomorrow morning, hm?”

“You would know far more about torture than I.” Wilkins bowed at the waist, took Annabel’s hand in his own and kissed it lightly.. “Isn’t it so, _Jezebel?”_

Despite Annabel’s bite, she rather fancied Wilkins. He was a strapping man who toted around a loyal, dignified air. He kept himself well-groomed, clean, and he boasted a lovely smile. He almost made her feel ill of her marriage rejections – _almost._

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Wilkins, a woman knows little of torture. It’s unbecoming,” she drawled, tossed him a wink, and bounced over to her cousin.

“He has never fared well with rejection.” He comments, leaning close to Annabel’s ear, ruffling her auburn tresses with affection. “How you’ve managed to deal with his pestering all these years is beyond me.”

“Is that the patriot in you talking, Jonah?” She shoved away her prying cousin lightly, eyes drifting to the dangling dummy fitted in British attire, flames licking his stuffed bodice. “He may believe in different things than you, but he still believes. I respect a man of principles.”

Jonah’s cheeks filled with crimson. His eyes drew to the dummy as it was dropped into the street, taunted by rushing townsmen. He smiled slightly.

“He’s still a traitor,” he said.

“We’re all traitors,” she said.

Aunt Abigail ushered her troops into the Wilkins city estate. She wove her arm through Jethro’s, harped on about the gravity of the assembly, about the clothes he would wear. Only his best would do, she insisted! Her sons followed suit, leaving Annabel to observe the happenings on the street.

Wilkins sidled beside Annabel. She was aware of the way his eyes longed for her, the manner in which that trickled over her body. Her eyes still drew to the dummy, and Wilkins followed her gaze.

“Traitors, all of them,” he spat. “Pardon my eavesdropping, but did I hear you mention treachery? Do my loyalties not deter you?”

She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “No, it’s not that, I assure you—there are many, many reasons and I must regrettably inform you that I made a list discerning such details; alas, I left it at home. Another time, perhaps.”

“I sense much jest in your tongue.” Wilkins mused, stepping closer to Annabel than she preferred. His breath tickled down her neck, shivering its way beneath her bosom. The sensation unnerved her, caused her breathing to falter. “It makes a man wonder where the lady’s loyalties lie.”

She huffed a sigh, shook her head with impatience. She didn’t like his breath on her – the feeling of lust, attraction. It held little appeal to her.

_Jezebel returns._

“To imply loyalty is to imply trust and dignity—you forget James, that I am in little possession of either. Hence; I care little of your trivial sides and brazen toy guns. Shoot away—maim yourselves. No side is better, or worse—fools carry an equal burden. I possess no loyalties, no grievances. I tend to myself. I haven’t the dull luxury of _trust._ ”

She turned up her nose and bounded into the house, a bewildered loyalist in her wake.


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner, in Annabel’s opinion, went as well as could be expected. Uncle Jethro and Aunt Abigail chattered gaily with the Wilkins tenants—long lost friends, together, on such an imposing occasion.

Uncle Jethro was mindful to steer the conversation away from his political preferences—primarily the Assembly that was to convene tomorrow to decide South Carolina’s involvement in the war—as well as coyly observing his ward, cognizant of every twitch and witty remark she dared make. Annabel nearly exploded under his watchful eye, resisted the urge to leap up and dance across the room.

_Appease your Tory friends, Uncle, and leave me be._

After all, she _was_ abiding by his trivial conditions, behaving as she should. Why, she even humored James when he insisted on pulling out her chair and swathing food upon her plate.

Beside the zealous Wilkins was a gloomy Jonah. He was a storm cloud, sending silent ightning bolts in Wilkins’s direction. His ire was particularly invoked if James caressed her hand, or offered her a smile. A tory – touching his cousin? The horror!

 “Would it not be so inconvenient to ask the lady if she’d accompany me on a stroll through town?” James lifted an inquiring eyebrow, his divine dark cobalt eyes flickering between Annabel and her Uncle, who practically leapt from his dining chair with joy.

“Yes—please—stroll! Take her out, show her around.”

Aunt Abigail’s brows drew towards her nose worriedly, her hand flew to her husband’s meaty forearm. “Jethro, are you sure that’s wise? I didn’t much like the… displays we saw today. I fear for Annabel’s safety.” Judging by the coy wink Aunt Abigail propelled in her niece’s direction; Annabel’s safety was the least of her worries. Annabel smirked toothily at her Aunt, inclined her head in gratitude.

 “Surely James will serve as a fine protector,” Mr. Wilkins interjected, lips twitching into an aristocratic beam.  It nearly rivaled his son’s, though his wrinkles betrayed his age. “A fine soldier, my boy will make. Miss Rothschild is in most capable of hands.”

“That’s settled then,” Jethro concluded and returned to his meal.

***

“You mustn’t be so reserved around me, Jezebel. We’ve been acquainted for quite some time.”

“So you seek to remind me,” Annabel’s southern drawl oozed of mirth. It provoked him to smile, a severe look that was almost attractive.

 “I do not blame you for rejecting my proposal all those months ago, he admitted. “Reminiscing, I find I deserved it. I get ahead of myself if you couldn’t tell.” He spared a shaky laugh. “Mother was right – humility is miserable.”

“And you do believe everything your mother says?”

She wrought he braid through her lithe fingers, turned her eyes to the darkening sky.

 “She is a very honorable woman. I’d be a fool not to.”

“A shame. I find myself rather fond of men who can think for themselves.”

“You think me dependent?” He refuted, taken aback. “Pray tell, what encourages such a notion?”

“Your views. Your actions. The very righteousness behind your devotion to England are the words of your father. Do not deny it, James. It is unfortunate that you cannot muster formidable opinions of your own.”

“My allegiance to the crown is not merely because of my father’s influence, if that’s what you’re suggesting. It would be would foolish of me, however, to admit that I do not seek solidarity in his words, for I admire him greatly. My honor, it appears, is what draws me toward the Crown.” He smiled, a private, satisfied smile. “My father could devote himself to the Rebels right this moment, and my mind would not be persuaded otherwise. I commit myself to King and Country—no matter how severe the costs.”

She was impressed by his riveting confession. This was no confession of his fathe r—no – this was the true James, the real James. The James who spoke his value, his truth. She offered him an speculative smile.

 _Perhaps I do fancy him,_ she mused.

She didn’t have another moment to spare the though before her eyes caught on movement in the towne’s square. An adamant Mr. Howard called into the masses, preaching the Crown’s betrayal and nodded to his lame leg. In that same crowd she spotted the distinctive tangle of blonde hair – Gabriel. He observed the presentation with Jonah’s mousy head bobbing beside him. Off to their left stood the young Thomas Martin. He was entranced by the plump, gesticulating patriot.

 “Mr. Howard,” Annabel pointed to him with the end of her braid. “A respectable man who fought for the crown so long ago. Given your loyalist perspective. Do you deem him a traitor?”

Wilkins nods deeply, opened his mouth to reply, but Annabel continued. “No—no, I cannot condone incriminating someone who has maintained loyalty with England for so long. You haven’t fought a war—yet—and nor have I, but Mr. Howard—in all his stoutness and unsubtly— _he’s_ bled. He’s _sacrificed._ I feel that it’s within his rights to abhor a King whom put him in a most compromising position.” She sighed, almost comically, and continued: “That is what will make this war so miserable. There are too many angles. I fear we will lose more than we will gain at the end of this conflict—American nation or not.”

Her eyes caught on Jonah’s back. Yes, Jonah had an angle, though he’d deny it. He may seem impassive, somber and mischievous at first glance, but, just like his father, Jonah was blood thirsty and righteous.

 _“Blast those Tories!,”_ he rambled – a mad man, for certain. Jonah, for everything he was, was already lost to the war. The worst part was, he was too naïve, too unscathed.

Jonah, like Wilkins, had little experience with sacrifice or pain. Passionate as only words can be, they were still only words—vacant promises, small declarations. They knew nothing, nothing at all. To be beaten or slain or whipped… Annabel tensed at the images that’s whirled through her mind, her hand instinctively tightening around her braid. The pull jerked her into reality.

 “—that is certainly unjustifiable, tomorrow we’ll just see where South Carolina’s loyalties lie! I’ll wager—“ Wilkins rambled, oblivious to her disinterest.

Annabel cast her escort a bemused glance and hummed to herself cynically. “ _’twas a notion so grand that set him apart; painted him a stunning work of art; vexing and gnawing and determined he’d plead, thy needs were silly things until they were heed! Alone is a courtroom, as subtle as a clatter, it is of little matter; only the fittest of the fit, the bravest of the brave, shall hold up in court as they have to this day.”_

Jonah approached with a giddy Gabriel in tow. The later casted an admiring glance at Anne Howard in his travels. His body lurched toward her, intrigued.

“I see we’ve caught the later end of your ramblings, Bel.” Jonah mused. cousin mused.“What’s this about court?”

“Your lovely cousin here was just providing me with her insight on Patriotism and loyalties.” He persisted to fill in the new arrivals, both of whom were analyzing Wilkin’s tall, ox-like figure with traces of contempt.

Annabel traced the masculine body beside her, lifted her brows in silent appraisal. He was rather fetching. Her eyes flickered between Gabriel’s lean, healthy physique and Jonah’s controversial lithe, yet, bulky one—the shaping of Jethro’s no doubt, with Abigail’s tendency to chub—and quirked her lips in an ironic smile.. _Perhaps Jonah’s loyalties are not the **only** factor that conspires such hatred._

“Hopefully you’re not rubbing off on her.” Jonah said.

James smiled stiffly. “I’ll have you know she’s rather impartial. Nothing I do or say is going to change her outlook on this whole misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Gabriel echoed, pale eyebrows scrunching adorably Or, rather, irritably, but to Annabel they came out as adorable, humorous. “A war doesn’t make much for a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding in reference to this whole continental tirade. Soon enough, the Crown will put a stop to all of this foolishness and everything will return to the way it should be. No more trivial rebellions.”

Annabel had to hand it to Wilkins, he was one _hell_ of an antagonist.

“You think freedom and liberty are so easily forgotten?” Jonah raged, his face reddening like his father’s. “To hell with you and your King! We will be a sovereign state—an American _nation!_ We have troops marching across Delaware as we speak, battling your swine of a King! _”_

“There is no such Nation and to speak of one is treason,” Wilkins continued.“You’ll note that already your patriotic campaign is taking a beating and if tomorrow’s jurisdiction stands tall, I’ll prove it to you justly!”

“Damned Tory! All you do is gloat, like the inflated, treacherous snakes you are! You prove nothing but your own ineptness!” Jonah cried encouraging a full-fledged battling of opinions and righteousness, Gabriel chiming in his two-sense amongst the raving and fussing.

Annabel raised an imperious hand and broke through the melee. It was like scolding dogs!

“Simpletons—the lot of you! Are you so blind as to see that you are gnawing at each other’s ideals? You are neighbors! You—Gabriel, Jonah—you two are succumbing to the image that King George associates with Washington’s army: a whole lot of uncivilized drunkards with obnoxious tongues and foul humor! And you—James Wilkins—are a gloating swine in your own right! Can’t you see that provoking the opposing side is fruitless? You all are imbeciles!”

The three ceased their rantings and blinked. Gabriel chuckled, his nose scrunching much like his father’s.

“The lady speaks the truth.” He shrugged, incorrigible. “As ardent a Patriot as I, it doesn’t accomplish much to argue here, now. Not when the South Carolina Legislature will make it’s decision tomorrow.” He reached out a paw and tousled Annabel’s braid.

_“A lady in youth; a lady is red; a lady in church; a lady that’s dead; she pays no mind to the ground that she treads but only the meager ideas in her head; she mumbled and fumbles and down she will fall, only to prove she was the most righteous of them all.”_

Jonah gawked at his Cousin but eventually settled for a smile.

 “Maybe.” He held out his arm for Annabel, pinning her with sudden urgency. “We should get home, now.”

Wilkin’s shook his head and made to shoo Annabel’s protective cousin. “Nonsense. Your father deemed me her escort and protector. It’s my responsibility to see her safely home. Stay and enjoy the barbaric displays, who knows how long they’ll be permitted to occur.”

Wilkins knew better than to take Annabel’s hand and instead persuaded her respectfully with his foot, leading the path for home.

Wilkins bid Annabel a farewell at her borrowed bedchambers and clambered away, stealing a few glimpses at his beau. With a show of indifference, Annabel shuffled into her room and wretched off her stays and provisional fashions, exasperated at her Aunt’s attempt to accessorize her for the visit to Charlestowne, where—she was assured—all the fashionable ladies presented themselves jovially, single or no.

_Well, that just won’t do for this spinster._

Annabel laid her head that evening, unable to sleep as fate often had it. She was haunted by the furies of her past. She felt raw, exposed, and pull the covers over her shoulders. She felt a familiar pain in her back. In aim of distraction, she watched the porous upheaval of the oak floorboards.

A leaden, gut-wrenching cough spurred her from her meanderings. She doubled upright in bed, and voices drifted through the thin walls.

 _Abigail and Jethro?_ She wondered incredulously, making to fetch her slippers and homespun robe.


	4. Chapter 4

The sickly hand of illness reaped Uncle Jethro. He tossed through the nights, plagued by an unknown fiend. In the morning his limbs were weightless, his heart finicky. Each heartbeat was a token of labor, exertion. Annabel watched his face crinkle with agony.

Aunt Abigail fretted over him. She poured over his fatigued figure with haste, draped cool cloths over his forehead.

After a particularly gruesome batch of coughs, Annabel and Jonah adjourned to the hall. They exchanged glances – eyes flickering to the bedchamber door, to the floor, to each other.

When it seemed Jonah would speak, Mrs. Wilkins scampered between them. She carried a basin of fresh water in her hands.

“We must get this fever down, God willing,” she said. She disappeared into the bedchamber, the door shut feverishly behind her.

Jonah’s face went white as china, and his nose scrunched. His eyes flickered to the hall clock – it chimed.

On the chime, the doors of the courthouse flew wide. Inhabitants flew down its white steps, shouted into the streets: “ _The levy passed!”_

Annabel closed her eyes.

War – it was inevitable. Lexington and Concord only strengthened the appetite for independence and morphed the colonies into a blood thirsty machine seeking righteousness. It was only a matter a time until the South voted itself into the battle – guns drawn, faces beaming with pride.

When she opened her eyes, she watched Jonah – watched the anticipation swirl in his eyes. He craved war, _needed it._ He needed to prove him and fill that insatiable, all-consuming void that scratched beneath his ambition. He hungered for meaning, for independence. He longed for a patriot’s future – one of love, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

He wanted to be a hero.

 _He’ll only kill himself._ Her hands lifted to her braid and tugged on the bundle of crimson. _Kill himself to prove nothing – a puerile quest. Kill himself… Kill himself…_

She saw the blood on the battlefield. Saw a younger Jonah, the tales of heroes left dead in his lifeless hands. Triumph and glory to him – the glory of honorable death following a soldier’s duty.

_Kill himself… Kill himself…_

Cries of glee rained below, echoed into the hall. Jonah flew to the window, gazed down with child-like lust; like a child with candy, sweets.

“What say you, Jonah?”

He turned to her, slowly. He lifted his arms to the air, shook them excitedly.

“I say this is the greatest day of my life! We are at war, Bel! We are instruments – loud, crass instruments – in General Washington’s army. Time will come to pass and we will be free!”

“I see no current difficulties with my autonomy.”

He paused. Then, he lifted a finger, shook it at her in jest.

“I see your game, cousin. I understand your objection to war, but I will not allow it to rage while I sit idly by. I will be in battle!”

“You submit yourself to a terrible fate, then.” She fixed him with an icy glare. “ _In blood I breathe, in day I bleed, all to commit to thy misery; to willows and through the breeze; death will only omit such sweet misery.”_

“Do you think I have not calculated the risks?” He shouted, his face reddening. He held such a likeliness to his father, she almost laughed.

 “It’s hard to tell. I admit, your fever for war is most discerning and I do not think you’ve thought such a plan through.” She tugged on her auburn braid furiously. Her heart raced. “If you choose to fight, you will partake in a _fool’s_ war! A war that will end in the slaughter of this perceived, fictitious American Nation! The mother country will win, you ruffian! Do you hear me, dear cousin? Have you not seen the numbers, the headlines? King George will crush us without batting an eye. You will die for naught!”

“I see nothing except the betrayal of a countrywoman against her nation!” He said, impassioned by war. “How can you turn your back on your home? Your family? Have you been talking to the wretched tory James Wilkins? Don’t tell me you are fond of him, now!”

The savage fit of coughs wheezed through the halls. The pair winced at their suddenness, their crassness. Annabel turned her back to Jonah, balled her hands into fists.

“It is not I who turns her back on her family,” she said. “ _For His will be done, His death be wrought, and His sacrifice for naught.”_


	5. Chapter 5

_Two years later…_

Annabel gaped at the barkeep, raised a wind-blistered hand to support her head as she leaned against the counter.

“All – all of it?” She stuttered in disbelief. “Surely not _all of it?”_

The withered man nodded his sympathy. His hand paused in its ministrations, half-dirtied pint in his hand.

“’fraid so, little Miss. Everyone north of Charlestowne goes without ‘til that swine Cornwallis allows shipments through—ev’rything goes to them blasted redcoats.”

Annabel slacked her hold on the bar, bowed her head in despair.

How could she return to Aunt Abigail empty handed _, again_? To the boys? She swallowed against the lead in his throat.

“I thank you, then.”

The barkeep fixed her with sad brown eyes.

“Here—take this.” He hefted a silver flash onto the counter, gestured for her to take it with a kindly smile. “’tis not much, but I reckon it’ll keep the wolves at bay – yer Aunt Abigail used ‘ta be a drinkah in the day; this’ll help ‘er through. No charge.”

Annabel’s alluring eyes flickered fleetingly to the flask. He mouth bobbled in disbelief.

_Alcohol? He presumes alcohol will equal warm broth and grain? Meat?_

Annabel chased away a grimace and offered her gratitude once more, superficial though it was. She clutched the tin snuggly n her hands and shoved her way through the hearth of the bar. She did her best to ignore the snarls and catcalls; the sneers and groans.

She shuffled through the crisp evening with ease. The moon in the sky illuminated the vibrant tendrils of red of her hair. Her hair rivaled her temper: hot, wild, intemperate.

 _How dare they cut off our supplies?_ She grit her teeth as she walked. _How are the colonies supposed to eat, survive? You will no longer have a people to rule if you refuse to nourish them! We cannot survive on mead._

A cool wind whipped across her face and she clutched her shawl closer. She quickened her pace toward home.

It was home, wasn’t it?

Two years ago, she would’ve laughed at the notion. Once upon a time, her Aunt and Uncle’s home was a house – a happenstance. It was a place to stay dry, warm and safe. Aside from the talons her memories bore, the house was a haven. A haven with distant family – a distant family that became cherished, dear. Even Jethro – the bastard he was. He was always so harsh on her, cruel, but Annabel knew he cared – knew he felt grief for her past. Like her father, he was a hard man. And hard men died hard.

Uncle Jethro died hard.

The illness seized him quickly. She watched its prickly hands swathe his essence, devour him, squeeze his heart until it thudded dead in his chest. She watched as the hands tightened with Jonah’s farewell. His ailing father in his dust, Jonah tied his boots and left for war, Jethro’s musket in hand.

_“I have a duty – I have to go. I’ll have Gabriel to watch after me – I won’t be alone.”_

_She nodded solemnly, turned her head to gaze at the courthouse steps. She felt the heat of his hesitating hand near her waist, felt it withdraw._

_“I’ll miss you, Bel.”_

She would miss him, too. She missed him now. It was like a hole in her heart. A hole that stretched wider by war, and death and famine. He had a duty, he said. Annabel never truly understood the concept of duty.

Until now.

She not only had to ensure her survival. She had to ensure her Aunt Abigail’s, her cousins’.

She fought against the pressure in her chest, the memories of expectation and survival, and straightened with renewed determination. She had to a responsibility to feed them, clothe them, to encourage their liveliness. It was a distraction from her own survival and worries – a distraction from death and disappointment.

Death carried a unique flavor, and Annabel was quick to taste it on her palate. Her eyes drew to the graveyard she passed and shivered at the chill that trickled down her spine.

There, she saw ghosts. Abigail, Jiminy, Peter – they stood over an open grave, watched as Jethro’s casket was lowered into the ground. It rained that day, and the dirt clotted together.

A plot down, she saw another ghost. She was young, beautiful. Though her apparition was grey, the eccentricity of her red hair was visible. A tall, rigid man stood at her back. His jaw was akin to the late Jethro’s – rigid, unyielding. He mouthed words to the girl, made an impatient gesture.

 The little girl threw her head over her shoulder to reveal a face brandished with bruises. Her eyes flickered to the man, then to Annabel.

Annabel inhaled a trembling breath and brought a hand to her braid. She felt a distinctive burn trickle down her back, her legs. It was a thrashing memory, a cruel memory.

Still, the girl’s eyes continued to prod Annabel’s.

 _I don’t want to return. Save me,_ they begged. _Save me, save me, save me –_

“Rebel,” she whispered to the girl. “Rebel to survive. Show him no fear.”

A neighing snapped Annabel into reality. The ghosts disappeared and a swelling of horses replaced them. They stood in the distance alone, and Annabel drew nearer. She studied the colors of their saddles.

 _Continental horses, here? Jonah? It couldn’t possibly be—_ Annabel practically leapt with glee at the possibility of discovering of her cousin. Would he not have visited home on his journey? Lee’s Light Dragoons would trek through here, certainly? Even with the newly British acquired Charlestowne paces away?

She lifted a hand to affectionately caress the hindquarters of a brown horse. He was a magnificent beast – large. He nearly rivaled her favorite horse, Tilly, who lingered on the outskirts of town. She raked her hand along the horse’s saddle, traced the etching in the leather. A canteen swung from the pommel. Next to that, a knapsack.

She reached inside to find parchment. She unfolded it eagerly, angled it for visibility in the moonlight. It was a personal letter – a rather arduous one, by the looks of it. She continued to read it, her hands fisting in the letter:

_“For the commander…. He is merciless. The colonials run at our charges. I worry for my sake. I write you this from a British camp outside Charlestowne—in which we have captured….”_

Annabel dropped the letter to the ground.

_British – of course it’s the British!_

Though her heart drooped at the lost prospect of Jonah, she continued to feel around the knapsack. Within it, she unearthed several spoils – rice, jerky and flour. She stowed them in her petticoat and moved to another horse.

Knapsack by knapsack, she procured enough produce and dried goods to feed her family for weeks. She grinned to herself.

_I’d steal from the rich if the rich were free; so I steal from the soldier who made to flee. Left his goods in his sack for the world to see, only a fool would pass up such spoils indeed._

“Hey! You, there! Thief!”

Annabel skirted under a neighing beast and made into the night, soldiers hot on her tail. One even was so bold as to capture her sleeve, but was soon called off by a harsh, commanding voice: “Let her go! It isn’t worth out time!”

Annabel darted to Tilly in the woods, boarded her – spoils and sanity intact. She paused a moment to hear the voices of her former pursuers:

“I insist Lieutenant, sir—“

“Follow your orders, Corporal. We’ll catch her eventually. The Dragoons will begin the sweeping of the countryside tomorrow. His majesty will reap spoils at her neighbor’s sacrifice soon enough. You will recover what you have lost.”

“Will we Regimentals be joining the pillaging, sir?”

A chuckle.

 “Nonsense. We will leave that savagery to the good Colonel Tavington and his Dragoons… His Lordship requests our presence in battle minutely.”

“T-tavington, sir? God Bless.”

  _Tavington, who?_ Annabel wondered and launched into the night, the darkness engulfing her as she rode.

 

 


End file.
